


Whispered Promises Are Best Made In Silence

by whatthefuckgallagher



Category: Shameless - Fandom, Shameless US - Fandom, gallavich - Fandom
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Comforting Mickey, Depressed Ian, Depression, Drabble, Ficlet, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Set sometime after 4x12, Shameless, shameless us
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-24 00:14:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2560958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefuckgallagher/pseuds/whatthefuckgallagher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I couldn't ride a bike til' I was fourteen. Fuckin' fourteen, man.  And I swear to god, if you laugh I'll punch you in the fucking dick."</p>
<p>Ian's silence sent small shivers through Mickey as he sat next to the red-head in the bed, as far from him as he could manage. He felt that touching him, or getting too close would somehow break him, shatter Ian into a million pieces and he'd lose him forever, and Mickey couldn't risk that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Whispered Promises Are Best Made In Silence

"I couldn't ride a bike til' I was fourteen. Fuckin' fourteen, man. And I swear to god, if you laugh I'll punch you in the fucking dick."

Ian's silence sent small shivers through Mickey, as he sat next to Ian in the bed, as far from him as he could manage. He felt that touching him, or getting too close would somehow break him, shatter Ian into a million pieces and he'd lose him forever, and Mickey couldn't risk that.

Ian’s silence sent small shivers through Mickey, as he sat next to Ian in the bed, as far from him as he could manage. He felt that touching him, or getting too close would somehow break him, shatter Ian into a million pieces and he’d lose him forever, and he couldn’t risk that.

"Those things are fucking death machines though. And besides, their dumb as shit. Bikes are for 40 year-old dads with small dicks and faggots."

He grinned at Ian’s back, searching for any kind of reaction. Anything at all. But his body was stiff, completely still except the soft rise and fall of his chest. Mickey had been talking to the half-naked boy in his bed for hours now. He hadn’t moved once, and with each passing moment, worry set deeper into Mickey’s forehead, a headache slowly growing. But that was no competition for the ache that grew with every passing breath, deep in his chest. He felt as though part of him was dead, shrouded in the darkness that clung viciously to Ian’s mind.

"I also hate cockroaches. Those fucking things are literally the grossest shit on this planet. Fucking suckers climb on the goddamn ceiling and fly at your face, it’s fucking disgusting."

Nothing.

Desperation was rattling the young thief’s heart beat, and he could feel a soft tremor in his hands. He wanted to fix this, needed to fix this, but he couldn’t. Mickey was used to being able to fix things with harsh threats and swift fists, but now he was stuck on the outside, watching helplessly, completely useless to the only person he gave a fuck about.

"It’s not like I won’t kill them, I’m not a fucking pussy. I just don’t need those things flying at my face every goddamn time I turn on the fucking lights."

Because it was true. This dumb piece of shit that he’d gone to juvie, gotten fucking shot-twice, and searched a god damn gay bar for, was all Mickey had. Sure there was Mandy, the only Milkovich he’d ever really, truly loved, but even their relationship was nowhere near what he had with Ian. He couldn’t breathe without Ian Gallagher, couldn’t move, couldn’t survive without this pain in the ass. This fucking ginger was what kept him somewhat sane and alive in this shit hole he was endlessly fucking stuck in.

"They’re not even needed! Like what the fuck is their purpose? Flying and scaring the shit out of you. That’s it. And you can’t even kill them because they’re indestructible or some bullshit."

He stared intently at Ian’s back, silently pleading from some kind of change, anything at all really. He felt suffocated from his thoughts, smothered by the fears that were pressing down on him from every direction.

He eased himself down from his sitting position, and lay a few inches away from Ian, facing his back. Mickey hesitantly brushed his fingers down the part of Ian’s back that was exposed from where the blanket and slid down. He took the fact that Ian didn’t recoil from his touch as a positive sign, deliberately ignoring the complete lack of response or movement from the boy in front of him. Leaning forward, he placed feather-light kisses on pale shoulder blades, feeling the red-head shutter slightly under his touch, forcing down the hope that threatened to crawl up his stomach.

"I’ll take care of you, I promise. You’re not going anywhere, alright? I won’t fucking let you. I just got your dumb ass all to myself, and I ain’t giving you up that easy, alright? I’m gonna help you get better." Mickey whispered against Ian’s back, his hand smoothing the goosebumps on the younger boy’s soft, freckled skin.

Abruptly, Ian turned his body towards him, and Mickey instantly froze, his hand resting in mid air, just lightly brushing Ian’s pale skin, as he locked eyes with the older boy. And that’s when he saw them. The tears silently pouring down Ian’s face, the look of desperation, absolute sadness, and fear in his eyes, burning bright in their impossibly green color. Lines etched themselves in creases around the boy’s sockets, thick veins of blood coating the whites of his eyes and his eyelashes glistening in the dim light of the room.

"Shit, Ian." Mickey breathed before taking the younger boy in his arms and holding him as close as he possibly could, wrapping his arms around his body, holding him tightly as if he could protect him from everything that was tearing Ian up inside. Shutters shook the boy in his arms’ torso as he sobbed into his chest, and Mickey tried to pull him closer, to hold him tighter. Clutching the taller red-head, the dark-haired teen whispered into the darkness, mumbling the words, "I’m gonna take care of you." and "I’m here." over and over until his voice was barely audible and his throat dry and sore from overuse.

And they stayed like that for what seemed like ages. The sun crept higher into the sky until Mickey was sure it was past noon, but he didn’t move, didn’t loosen his hold. He couldn't risk letting go and losing the only person he’d ever had.


End file.
